Page 7

CHAPTER

3

THE GASH IN my index finger needed stitches, but the one doctor who came through town wouldn’t be there until a week or so. I could drive closer to Tucson and visit a nurse practitioner I knew or make the trip all the way to Tucson for urgent care.

I took the option that included Dixie, a diner waitress, and Doug, a diner cook, putting on clean gloves and performing a little needle-less surgery. Dixie held the gash closed while Doug taped it up with some butterfly bandages found in the diner’s first aid kit.

“This isn’t smart,” Doug said as he put on his glasses and peered closely at the cut and his handiwork. “You need stitches.”

Dixie snapped off her gloves and said, “I think it’ll be okay. We drowned that thing in hydrogen peroxide. Bacteria will not come calling, and you have good steady hands, Doug. The scar won’t be bad, honey.”

Dixie had eleven children. It would take an arterial bleed or unconsciousness to worry her. In fact, she might meet unconsciousness with “Give it a few minutes.”

Outfitted with torn vinyl booths and rocky tables and chairs, the diner had been around forever as far as I knew. It was the only restaurant around these days, unless you traveled about ten miles toward Tucson for a freeway exit of fast food and homemade pie. I didn’t mind the trip when I was craving a thick crust pizza, a greasy burger, or a slice of banana cream. But most of the time, not being fond of cooking anything that couldn’t be warmed in my countertop toaster, I ate at the diner. Lots of us did. It brought in plenty of money, and a remodel or even a facelift to the place would not only ruin its charm but also show up every other establishment in town. Keeping it a little bedraggled matched the rest of us, its customers, and made us comfortable.

“Hey,” the diner’s youngest waitress, Trish, came through to the back room where we’d convened. “I found some superglue.”

“Good girl,” Dixie said. “Give it to me.”

“Superglue? Like over-the-counter superglue?” I asked.

Dixie took the tube from Trish. “Perfect. It hasn’t been opened yet. We’ll glue the cut shut. Doug can lift off the bandages one at a time. We’ll have it closed up tight. Shoot, you might not have any scar.”

I examined their handiwork and was impressed enough. “It’s closed pretty well, Dix. I think we’ll just stick with this.”

Dixie seemed disappointed but shrugged a moment later. “Suit yourself.” She put the tube of superglue into her uniform’s apron and stood. Her hand went to the small of her back as she took another moment to straighten.

Not only had she raised eleven children, she’d done most of it on her own, working at the diner for years. Three of her kids had graduated from the University of Arizona. Every time someone asked her if she was ever going to retire, she’d tell them how many more she had to go before a “life of leisure” was possible.

Eight might be her current tally, but her son Griffen was a senior in high school this coming year and would graduate with honors if he knew what was good for him.

Doug was the only male who worked in the diner. He claimed to enjoy working with the “girls.” However, jobs weren’t easy to come by in Black Vulture. So even if he didn’t like it, he’d find a way to put up with his female coworkers.

“Hey, Hazel,” Trish said. “I’ve spotted some official cars heading out to the desert. Crime stuff. Do you know what’s going on?”

“I don’t have any details,” I said without hesitation.

Trish nodded and bit her bottom lip. She turned and gazed in the direction of the employees’ small lockers, battered and peeling from years of use.

“What’s up, Trish?” I asked.

Her attention snapped back in my direction. She shook her head. “Joey hasn’t answered my texts since yesterday. He might just be being an ass, but I guess I’m a little worried.”

Dixie sent me a look before she turned to Trish. “He’s done this before, honey. Like some stray animal, he’ll come sniffin’ back for you when he gets hungry enough.”

“That’s not nice, Dixie,” Trisha said.

“I know.” She frowned at Trisha.

A long beat later, the younger woman deflated. “I know. He’s done this before.”

“Yes, he has.”

I couldn’t help but dig a little—unofficially. “I’m sure he’s fine too, Trisha, but do you have any new or unusual reason to be concerned about him?”

She frowned at my authoritative tone and then thought for a moment. “Well, I’m not sure …”

She had all our attention now.